


chamomile tea and licorice

by neverdanced



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Diners, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, F/F, F/M, M/M, Meet-Cute, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 07:52:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4556667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverdanced/pseuds/neverdanced
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I took matters into my own hands and one back alley later, the girl is home safe but I’m banned for life because apparently <i>I’m</i> the dick.”</p><p>“That’s ridiculous.” Bucky’s reply is immediate and forceful because seriously, what the fuck.</p><p>The man nods. “Ridiculous,” he repeats with a disdained shake of his head. “I just—I don’t like bullies, you know?” He looks at Bucky.</p><p>His eyes are blue and Bucky is <i>gone</i> because this guy is an ass-kicking angel.</p><p>“I couldn’t agree more,” says Bucky.</p><p>*</p><p>Or, in which Bucky works at a diner, Steve isn't a vigilante (as much as he'd like to claim he is), and they're both sweet on each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	chamomile tea and licorice

**Author's Note:**

> This is my piece for the [Christmas in July](http://stuckysecretsanta.tumblr.com/) challenge over at stuckysecretsanta. The prompts were: craft shop, holly, and glaze.

It’s half past eleven and the diner’s nearly empty.

A handful of teenagers are crammed into the corner booth and Stark, a regular, occupies the booth near the door (considering the amount of time he spends there, he should be paying rent at this point).

The teenagers laugh and shout, Stark stares intently at the tabletop, and Bucky walks the room.

Stopping by the teenagers, he asks if they need anything and receives a chorus of, “No, thanks!” To which he responds with a brief, completely fake smile and shoves the bill beneath the napkin holder.

Then, he strolls toward Stark.

Stark’s coffee is down to a thin line at the bottom of his mug. “Freshen that up? Asks Bucky. This time, he doesn’t bother to force a smile or even pretend he wants to _be there_. Stark doesn’t give a shit. He’s staring off into space and has doodled some complex looking equation onto his napkin

He startles a little at Bucky’s voice.

“No,” he says, eyes darting upward. “I’m good.”

Bucky begins to walk away and Stark calls after him.

“Wait, is Carter in?”

“It’s fucking midnight.” Bucky tosses the words over his shoulder. “Of course not.” From the corner of his eye he can see Stark shrug indifferently. He’ll be back in the morning, anyway. If Peggy actually comes in, he can see her then.

Peggy Carter owns the diner, but isn’t often seen.

Her wife, Angie, regularly manages the place and Bucky has joked with her once or twice, asking if Peggy leads some sort of double life as an expert spy. In reply, Angie has only smiled and told him to shut his pretty mouth. It isn’t a yes or a no, but for every bit sweet Angie is, she’s equally intimidating so Bucky doesn’t push.

Now, he slips behind the front counter and leans into the bright red laminate. His gaze glazes over a little because god, it’s late.

It’s late, he’s tired, and he’s fucking hot.

His uniform, a standard polo with _Cartinelli’s Diner_ stitched onto the chest and a pair of jeans, feels insufferably warm in the summer heat. The A/C’s been on the fritz and the setting sun hasn’t done a thing to make the temperature or humidity more manageable.

The kicker is that he’s barely into his shift. He’s got another six plus hours ahead of him and his only company is Clint, the cook, who’s probably sleeping in a cupboard somewhere because there hasn’t been a ticket in over an hour.

Fuck.

He pushes his fingers through his hair. Combs it back and tucks the strands behind his ears. It’s getting long, almost chin length now. It’s different and he likes it.

Ten, fifteen minutes pass and the teenagers collectively shuffle up to the counter. They bicker over how to split the bill and leave him a rather gracious tip, more than he expected, and then they head out into the night.

Twenty minutes later, Stark leaves.

The diner is empty and Bucky’s left alone with only the low murmur of the radio.

Some unnamed alt-pop song plays, something about _one, two, three, they gonna run back to me because I’m the best baby that they never got to keep_ and Bucky knows it’ll be stuck in his head for the rest of his shift and possibly beyond. He pulls his phone out and taps idly at the screen, finding out who the artist is and huh, apparently she’s Rob Schneider’s daughter. That’s random.

The bell above the door jingles, drawing him from his stupor.

A man enters.

Bucky jerks upward and tries to appear professional. He begins to chirp his well practiced greeting of, “Welcome to Cartinelli’s diner, how can I help you?” but it dies in his throat.

The man is small and slim, wearing an oversized black hoodie and tattered jeans. He’s got a mop of blond hair on his head, half of it dyed faded purple, but that isn’t what makes Bucky hesitate. No, it’s the split lip and the start of a rather impressive shiner. Bucky winces a little because, _ouch_ and the man approaches the counter. He takes a seat and hefts his battered messenger bag onto the stool beside him.

“Coffee, please,” he says. His voice is surprisingly low.

“Sure,” says Bucky. He turns toward the pot and begins to fill a mug.

“One sugar, no cream,” the man adds. It comes out as an order and Bucky bristles a little, reminded of his army days.

“Sugar’s in front of you,” Bucky replies curtly. He sets the mug down and it hits the counter a little harder than intended. A bit of coffee sloshes over the side and onto the counter.

The man’s eyes narrow and he looks up. “There a problem?” He asks, eyes flashing.

“No.” Bucky pulls the rag from his pocket and wipes the counter. “No,” he repeats with a tried sigh. “It’s just—it’s late and I was going to say I’m having a rough night but…” he pauses and eyes the split lip and blossoming black eye. “But I’m guessing it doesn’t hold a candle to yours.”

The man lowers his head. He presses a finger to the sensitive skin around his eye and shrugs a bony shoulder. “I’ve had worse,” he says. The sleeve of his hoodie slips a little, revealing colorful trails of ink tracing the skin of his arm and Bucky wonders what this dude’s _deal_ is.

“Ultimate fighter?” Bucky half jokes because who the fuck knows.

“Vigilante,” the man offers with a brief, proud smile.

Lowering his chin a notch, Bucky holds the other man’s gaze. “Seriously?” He asks. Because, seriously?

The man quirks a small smile which is, admittedly, pretty cute.

A few strands of purple-ish hair fall into his eyes.

“No,” he says, pushing the strands away. “But that would be pretty awesome, huh?” He laughs. Bucky laughs too and a pleasant warmth pools in his stomach. The man continues by saying, “Nah, I was at a bar. Some guy was getting handsy with a girl who clearly wasn’t into it, so I mentioned it to the bouncer. He completely ignored me, so I asked the girl if she was okay and she outright told me she wasn’t.” His expression darkens. “I took matters into my own hands and one back alley later, the girl is home safe but I’m banned for life because apparently _I’m_ the dick.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Bucky’s reply is immediate and forceful because seriously, what the fuck.

The man nods. “Ridiculous,” he repeats with a disdained shake of his head. “I just—I don’t like bullies, you know?” He looks at Bucky.

His eyes are blue and Bucky is _gone_ because this guy is an ass-kicking angel.

“I couldn’t agree more,” says Bucky.

Without thought, Bucky grabs a packet of sugar and rips it open. He pours it into the man’s coffee and then flashes him a brief, genuine smile.

If Bucky isn’t mistaken, the man’s cheeks gain the faintest shade of pink.

  
  


* * *

 

Steve.

That’s the man’s name.

Steve Rogers.

Bucky learns this because Steve continues to come into the diner. Once or twice a week and always late at night, which is nice, because it means they’re alone and are able to talk. Between twelve and three the diner is basically deserted and those are the times Steve seems to favor.

Turns out he’s a friend of Peggy’s.

“Best gal I know,” Steve tells Bucky. “And could kick both our asses without smudging her makeup,” he adds without prompting.

Which, well, Bucky doesn’t question.

Because yeah, he gets the vibe that she totally could.

  
  


* * *

 

When Bucky asks why they’ve never met, Steve hesitates.

“My ma died.” His expression grows distant and Bucky feels badly for asking. “I had to leave town to deal with some… stuff, and then I just didn’t want to be around anybody. Seven months later, I’m finally getting back to… y’know. Life.”

As Steve says this, he eyes Bucky’s bionetic prosthesis.

He says, “But I guess you’ve dealt with some shit too.”

“Some,” Bucky replies.

He flexes his arm, making a fist. The metal plates shift and whir, recalibrating.

Steve looks mildly impressed.

Bucky ducks his head. “But, shit, man. That’s awful. My ma died when I was kid so I can’t even imagine.”

They share an awkward, _I’m there for you, bro_ type look and then carry on with their evening.

  
  


* * *

 

“You an artist?”

Bucky stands behind the counter and eyes Steve’s ever-present sketchbook.

Steve snorts. “What gave that away?” He asks without looking up.

He’s sketching a wreath with a sprig of holly in it.

“Smartass,” says Bucky. “But FYI, it’s July and you’re sketching holiday shit.”

“I design greeting cards,” says Steve, nonplussed, like this is a conversation he has every day. “Holidays are just around the corner, gotta go through the editing process. You know.”

“Oh.” Bucky feigns nonchalance, like he knew. “Sure,” he says and Steve smiles.

“Sure,” he echoes, and the smile doesn’t fade when he ducks his head and continues to work.

  
  


* * *

 

“So, Steve.”

Bucky’s beginning his shift and Angie is on her way out.

“What about Steve?” Asks Angie. She unties her apron and folds it neatly atop the counter.

“Um.”

“Um,” mimics Angie, smiling brightly. “He’s been talking about you.”

“What?” Bucky’s throat dries.

“Sure.” Angie shrugs, perfect curls bouncing against her shoulder. “He came to dinner at Peggy and mine last night. Mentioned you, once or twice or maybe fifty times.”

“Yeah?” Bucky smiles a little. “What’d you tell him?”

“I told him you’re very single, very gay, and very interested.”

The smile vanishes. “What?” Bucky sort of squeaks the word and when has his voice ever sounded like that.

Angie laughs. “He made a similar noise,” she comments, and then winks before turning on a heel and heading out the door.

  
  


* * *

 

The thing is, Bucky hasn’t really dated since he got back.

He’s had a couple of one-night stands and he blew a guy in a coffee shop bathroom a few months back (the guy even bought him a scone after, which was a plus). But relationships? No. He’s got friends and a fairly active social life, but things on the romance side have been pretty dry.

He just hasn’t been interested.

His focus has been on building a solid life as a civilian; he’s spent most of his life as a soldier, and had to figure out who he was as a person.

So, he’s a little surprised to find himself standing in a small craft store a block from his apartment. He feels completely out of his element and has been staring blankly at the display of pencils, pens and markers for over five minutes.

“Can I help you?” An associate asks.

She’s small with brown hair and a crisp English accent. Her nametag reads Jemma.

“Um.” Bucky draws a short breath in. “There’s this guy—he likes to draw. I want to buy him something but…” He trails off.

“Well.” Jemma sets her hands on her hips. “What medium does he work in primarily?”

“What?” Asks Bucky. “He draws. He’s got a pencil.”

“Charcoal, graphite?” She asks. “Colored pencil?”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” he says, scratching at his neck. “There’s color. He… sometimes he erases, with this little nub thing.” He gestures vaguely and Jemma watches him with an amused expression.

“Does he have a website?” She asks.

“Oh. Um.” He stutters, again, unsure.

“You don’t know?” She tries and he nods weakly.

“I should just go,” Bucky mutters, realizing what a truly terrible idea this was.

Jemma lets out a small breath and shakes her head, smiling. “No, no, come with me.”

She ushers him up to the front counter.

A man in a bulky grey cardigan stands behind it. His nametag reads Leo. He’s Scottish and a little fumbling in conversation but Bucky learns that he’s Jemma’s husband and that they own the shop. Together, they gather behind the counter and duck over a tablet, where they google Steve and manage to find his website and portfolio. His work is impressive, and ranges far beyond the trees and dreidels.

Bucky winds up with a 24-count set of verithin Prismacolors.

“It will help him with the details in his work,” Jemma tells him. “Oh, tell him that! It’ll impress him.” She squeals the words and squeezes Bucky’s shoulder. “And tell him his shading is impeccable, especially on the Mako Mori fanart.”

“What?” Bucky asks.

“He has Tumblr, too—“ Jemma begins to say, pulling up a different tab on the tablet.

“Don’t say that,” Leo says, pushing the tablet from view. “Just, be yourself.”

Bucky shifts and tucks the pencil set beneath his arm. “Well, thanks. A lot. Because, seriously.” He draws a breath in.

“Good luck!” Jemma chirps and Leo gives him a firm nod.

  
  


* * *

 

He’s got a plan.

His plan is suave and complete with a perfectly flirty comment.

Except, when Steve walks in Bucky’s mind goes blank and he winds up sort of tossing the pencils onto the counter. “There,” he says. “For you.”

“Oh.” Steve picks them up. “Cool,” he says. “I needed a new set, actually.”

“They’re for… details,” Bucky mumbles and Steve looks up at him with a soft smile.

“I know,” he says. “But it’s cool that you know that, too.”

“Yeah.” Bucky grows quiet, unsure what to say next.

He’d meant to ask him out. He’d meant to ask him to breakfast or lunch or dinner.

Instead, he says, “I should go do some dishes,” and disappears to hide in the kitchen.

“Hate to break it to you, but there aren’t any dishes. Loveboy’s been our only customer in nearly three hours.” Clint’s voice comes out of nowhere and Bucky jumps, fingers clamping down on the chrome rim of the sink.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Where the hell are you?” He swings his head around and finally spots Clint draped across a prep station. He wrinkles his nose. “That’s disgusting, you make food there.”

“I’ll disinfect it,” Clint says, sitting up and allowing his legs to dangle just above the floor. He eyes Bucky. “What’re you doing back here, anyway? Hiding?”

Bucky shrugs. “Sort of,” he says.

“You ask him out yet?”

The lack of response is more than enough. Clint shakes his head.

“I’ve been watching you two moon over each other for over a month now. It’s getting a little pathetic.”

“Watch who you call pathetic,” Bucky warns, meeting Clint’s eye.

With a shrug, Clint says, “I’m just saying.”

Huffing, Bucky reels back to look out into the diner. “Hey, Steve,” he calls. Steve looks up from where he’d been hunched over his sketchbook. He wears a red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the slight furrow in his brow is positively adorable. “Wanna go out sometime?” Bucky asks. “Grab dinner or something, maybe a movie?”

“Um, sure.” Steve nods. “That’d be great.”

“Cool.” Bucky moves back into the kitchen. “Happy?” He asks.

“Entirely,” Clint replies with a wide grin.

  
  


* * *

 

Dating Steve, it turns out, is as natural as breathing.

August turns to September and Steve in scarves and beanies is too cute for words.

Steve is sweet and kind and tonight, as Bucky cards his fingers through blond hair and kisses him, he tastes like chamomile tea and licorice. Steve hums into the kiss appreciatively and nips at Bucky’s lower lip. He tugs him closer, crawling onto his lap. Bucky shifts and moves his hands to Steve’s hips. He slips his flesh hand up under his t-shirt and places it flat against the warm skin of Steve’s back.

“I really like you,” he mumbles against the corner of Steve’s mouth.

Steve pulls back, just for a second. His eyes are shining and he cocks his head to the right.

“I really like you too,” he says.

  
  


* * *

 

Steve has a list of health problems a mile long.

Every time he so much as sniffs, panic buds in Bucky’s chest.

“Don’t baby me,” he barks, or more like rasps, after a particularly brutal asthma attack. Bucky’s heart is still hammering as the adrenaline wears off, but he’d known exactly which inhaler to grab and how to help Steve use it.

Now, he gives him his space.

“Just tell me you’re okay,” he says.

“M’fine,” Steve says. “Just get me some water.”

  
  


* * *

 

One night, after a brutal nightmare, Bucky sits in the living room.

His shirt clings to damp skin and his hair sticks to his forehead. He’s trembling, shaking. He clamps his eyes closed. Flames play against the backs of his eyelids. Fire, blood, the muffled cries of his team. He rocks back against the cushions and punches his fists against his thighs.

He can hear the quiet tread Steve’s careful footsteps. “Don’t touch me.” He bites the words. “Go back to bed.”

“Buck…”

“Go back to bed,” he repeats.

After a few minutes, Steve reluctantly does as he’s told.

Bucky spends the night on the couch and retreats to the bedroom once Steve leaves in the morning. He spends the day there and calls out for work. Around midnight, he ventures into the kitchen and finds a neatly wrapped plate of chocolate chip cookies and a post-it with a simple heart drawn on it. Steve must have stopped by, probably to check on him but knew not to disturb him.

Bucky hadn’t even heard him.

He unwraps the plate and takes a bite of a cookie.

Pulling his phone from the pocket of his hoodie, he texts Steve.

 _I love you_.

Three little dots appear and a second later Steve replies.

_I love you too._

It’s the first time they’ve traded the words and Bucky lets out a long breath he hadn’t even known he was holding. He takes another cookie and heads back to bed.

  
  


* * *

 

“We’re both sort of a mess, aren’t we.”

Bucky says this as he takes a seat beside Steve at the counter. Steve’s wearing one of Bucky’s sweaters, too big and too long but he says it’s comfortable. It’s early February and cold as fuck so Bucky’s happy to keep him wrapped in as many layers as possible.

“You aren’t a mess, Buck,” Steve replies, voice quiet. He turns in his seat and places a hand against his cheek. “You’re amazing.”

“Right back at you,” Bucky says. He leans in and presses a quick kiss against Steve’s lips. “You should probably move in with me,” he says as he sits back up.

Steve smiles a little. “You’ve got a casual way of making life altering decisions, you know that?” He spins his pencil between his fingertips and Bucky rolls his shoulders in a lazy shrug.

“Nah,” he says. “I just know what I want.”

“Well, so do I,” says Steve. He reaches up with the pencil and taps Bucky’s nose. “And yes, of course. I practically live there already, anyway.”

Bucky smiles and leans in to wrap Steve in a tight hug and kisses his neck. Steve grumbles a little, punching his arm in mock offense, and then the bell above the door chimes. A couple walks in and Bucky pulls away. “Oops,” he mumbles. “Back to work.”

“I’ll be right here,” Steve says, returning to his drawing.

And yeah, he will be.

He always will, Bucky knows.

  
  


* * *

 

“I love your tattoos,” Bucky mumbles, mouthing at the brightly colored ink that trails Steve’s collarbone and trickles down his arms. “So fucking hot.”

“Mm.” Steve hums and grasps at Bucky’s hair, pulling him in for another kiss.

After, when they’re both sweaty and exhausted, Steve turns and tucks himself against Bucky’s side. He trails a finger along the seam of his arm, where metal meets skin. His fingertip dances along the scarred skin and Bucky doesn’t even flinch.

Normally he’d pull away, but he knows Steve doesn’t care.

That Steve loves him, scars and all.

  
  


* * *

 

In early May Bucky returns to that small craft store.

Actually, he’s been there a thousand times since. Turns out Steve’s a regular, and he’s hauled Bucky along on countless occasions, chattering animatedly about hues and tones and those probably aren’t even art things but fuck if Bucky can be bothered to listen, he gets too caught up in the way Steve moves his hands and just how _passionate_ he is about art.

As soon as he enters the shop, Leo and Jemma greet him.

“Bucky!” Jemma calls. “Where’s Steve?”

“At home,” he replies. “I want to make him something,” he admits. “A surprise.”

“Oh?” Leo looks intrigued and Bucky shrugs.

“Well, we’re here to help,” Jemma replies with a bright smile.

  
  


* * *

 

The post on Steve’s Instagram has a simple caption.

It reads, _My fiancé’s an artist too_ along with a photo of the sign Bucky had made (with Leo and Jemma’s help, of course).

The sign reads, _Will you marry me?_ and the post immediately following it is a photo of the simple, silver band Bucky had purchased for Steve.

  
  


* * *

 

Bucky doesn’t have an Instagram.

He doesn’t have a Twitter or any social media, really.

Instead, he texts Angie.

_Still very gay and very interested, but you can now cross very single off that list_

_Replace it with very engaged_

The screaming phone call he gets in response sends both he and Steve into a fit of laughter.


End file.
